


Marmalade At Christmas

by orphan_account



Category: Poirot - Agatha Christie
Genre: Christmas, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-12
Updated: 2012-05-12
Packaged: 2017-11-05 05:56:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/403153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Christmas is a time of traditions - and although some are long forgotten, they always have a way of coming back to us."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Marmalade At Christmas

As a young boy, I had always held this fascination with cooking. Not in cooking food myself – I am usually terrible at cooking, Poirot can attest to that - but in the general act of baking. I used to spend hours upon hours sat on the kitchen counter, watching my mothers and sisters bake pan after pan of glorious golden food in preparation for some summer fete or party. Whenever they left a cake to rise, or potatoes to roast, in the oven, I would be lying on the tiled floor, watching as they browned into mounds of sheer perfection.

One of my favourite things to watch, and the only thing I was ever allowed to assist with, was my mother making marmalade at Christmas time. Oranges were near impossible to get a hold of during the year, and were only ever available during the winter. Even then it was difficult. Mother would wait for hours outside the local grocers for the first oranges of the season, along with half the neighbourhood population. She always did say the first oranges were the best.

Then, once she had returned from warring with the tide of early-morning shoppers, she would spend the morning slicing the oranges into small pieces. I was not allowed to help with this part – my general ineptitude in the kitchen gave rise to the belief that I would probably cut my fingers off if I was ever left to cut the oranges myself – but once she had finished, and the knives were put away, I really came into my element, measuring out the sugar and water like my vision of a professional chef.

After several Christmas', Mother even trusted me alone with it whilst it bubbled merrily on the stove top. I watched it carefully for hours, turning down the heat when it threatened to boil over, and stirring when the marmalade looked as if it would stick to the bottom. When it had thickened into the sticky, sunset coloured spread, I would expertly spoon it into labelled jars – a few to keep in the pantry, a few to sell at the Christmas Fayre and one for Mr Collins next door, from whom we often had strawberries from in the summer.

However, as the War descended upon us, sugar and oranges became scarce, and our Christmas time tradition slowly faded. My mother eventually died, my sisters moved out to marry, and I joined the army. When I was invalidated from the frontline, the trenches had driven any pleasant memories of Christmas time to the back of my mind, replacing them with the sound of retching and the lingering scent of mustard gas.

Since then, Christmas has been something that I have failed to greatly enjoy. The ones that passed in the years following my invalidation were lonely and bleak, as I had neither the funds nor the friends to celebrate with. But the holiday was made more bearable when I moved in with Poirot, and even more so when we became a couple – the little man adored the festivities, and his good cheer put me in good, if not great, spirits for the duration of winter. But although Christmas was now more bearable than before, I had not continued my tradition of making marmalade for the season, mostly due to the fact it slipped my mind, but also since I was often too poor to afford the ingredients.

This all changed one winter's evening, around a week before Christmas. I had, quite surprisingly, come into a little extra money from investing in stocks, and as I wandered down the street towards home, I was wondering what to do with it. I had bought Poirot his Christmas gift a few weeks ago, and there was nothing pressing that I needed to get for myself, but I felt I should use it to make something special for this coming holiday.

On my way home, I passed by the local grocers, and that was when I saw the sign outside. ' _Oranges in stock'_ it read. ' _First of the season!'_ I paused outside, and reread the sign. The memories of Christmas' gone filtered through my mind like a long forgotten mist, and for a minute, I smiled in rememberance. Marmalade had been the only thing I could cook with a sure chance of success, and I wanted to make something special this Christmas. I knew what I was going to spend my money on.

The ingredients cost what extra money I had, but I felt it was money well spent. I entered the flat quietly, but with a poke in all the rooms, I saw that Poirot had was not here. A note on his desk said as much, stating that he had gone to speak to Inspector Japp about a case, and that he would arrive back later. Although I knew I would feel quite lonely without my partner's presence, I also marvelled at the fact that Poirot had picked the best time to spend the day away – Poirot would've never let me in his kitchen at all had he been home.

It took me little more than a quarter of an hour to weigh everything out. I was using my mother's recipe for marmalade, but due to her cookbook being given to one of my sisters upon my mother's death, I had to work entirely from memory. A little over an hour later, I'd sliced the oranges into thin enough slices. My skill with knives has improved since my boyhood, and although my slivers weren't as neat as my mothers, I felt they were presentable enough for someone with my amount of skill in the kitchen.

The cooking was relatively easy, although the marmalade nearly stuck at the bottom of the pan at some points. But soon enough, the treasured sunset glory sat happily in the rapidly cooling saucepan. I smiled, pleased at my achievement.

When I was younger, and we reached this point, I would always dip a finger in it to taste it. This usually ended up in burnt fingers and tongues, as I never waited for the marmalade to cool before I tried some. This time, however, I restrained myself until it had cooled, and I had poured it into a spare jar we had lying around. Then I indulged in my boyhood delight and tried some on the end of my finger.

It was exactly how I remembered it – a little mouthful of sweet sunshine. I tried another, and it had the exact same taste. I repeated this over and over again, and each piece tasted as good as the last. I was so engrossed in my task, I missed the door opening and closing in the corridor, and the tread of feet on the floorboards as whomever it was walked towards the kitchen. I didn't notice their presence at all until a very recognisable voice sounded from the door.

"Hastings, what are you doing?"

I turned my head sharply, finger still in my mouth. Poirot was stood in the doorway, looking thoroughly unimpressed at my eating habits. Feeling like a child caught with a hand in the sweet jar, I pulled my finger away with an audible _pop,_ flushing slightly.

"Nothing, really." I replied, trying to act nonchalant. Poirot just looked at me, so I changed my answer. "Just eating some marmalade, actually."

"Hastings, you are a grown man. You should know that food is not to be eaten with _les doigts._ "

"Well, technically it's not food. It's more of a… spread, really. Like a jam."

"It is still not to be eaten in the way you were eating it."

"I was only _trying_ it, Poirot. It's only just come off the stove, you see."

Poirot tilted his head quizzically. " _Comment?_ " he asked. "You made this _confiture_?"

"Well, yes. Do you want to try any, Poirot? It's very nice." I offered, waving the jar in his general direction. He looked completive for a few moments, obviously warring between outright refusing based on my previous cooking experience, or between trying it on the basis that it looked and smelled like good marmalade.

"Perhaps…"

I smiled, and went to give him the jar. He looked at it with obvious distaste, before pushing the jar back towards me. "No, Hastings," he said. "I will use the spoon."

He walked behind me, and I could hear him clattering around in the cutlery drawers. He returned a little while later with a teaspoon. With infinite care, he scooped a little onto the spoon. I watched with baited breath as he gingerly tasted it. His eyes fluttered shut as he considered the taste for a little while.

"Well?" I asked, once I felt like enough time had passed for Poirot to judge my creation. He didn't answer for a while, still standing there with his eyes shut. I was about to ask again when he decided to answer my question.

"It is… passable." I smiled in relief – passable would be the highest accolade any English dish would ever receive from Poirot. The man himself turned to me with a gleam in his green eyes. "Much better than your usual _cuisine._ I did not know you could make anything edible, Hastings."

Naturally, I was quite annoyed by that statement, and I said as much, despite knowing that what he said was mostly true. He smiled affectionately at me, and despite being irritated at him, I smiled back.

"If you're going to be like that," I said cheekily, pulling the jar of marmalade out of his reach. "You may not get anymore."

"I do not need the _jar_ to taste some of your marmalade," he replied. I looked at him quizzically, but he soon made himself perfectly clear by leaning over and kissing me senseless. I responded with enthusiasm, having missed his presence when he had left earlier.

"The _confiture_ tastes better on you, I think," he whispered huskily once we had resurfaced for air.

"Are you _quite_ sure about that?" I whispered back, smiling when I heard his breath hitch slightly.

"Perhaps not..." With that, he went back to distracting me with his lips, and the jar of marmalade was quite forgotten until several hours later.


End file.
